Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors) Read online

  "Yes, but that might not be the only key."

  Truly, Terence was more concerned than usual about being recognized! He'd even foregone his normal heavy drenching of spicy oriental scent in favor of a delicate sandalwood cologne that teased at Randall's senses quite delightfully. Reluctantly Randall released his crushing grip on the domino and let his hands slide down Terence's back to cup his taut buttocks through the thin pantaloons. "Very well, then. Come away with me for the night so we can be private."

  "I cannot." Hard hands closed on his own buttocks, squeezed them meaningfully. Randall shivered. His cock thickened, his blood stirred. Terence pulled him closer still, so that their groins rested against one another. A few thin layers of fabric separated them, but the heat was as unmistakable as the thick ridge his prick rubbed against.

  "But I leave tomorrow, I told you as much." Randall protested, grinding into the sweet pressure on his prick. "Never mind. If this is all the moment we have, then I want more than this." He wedged his hands in between their bodies, enjoyed Terence's gasp when he squeezed the man's prick through his pantaloons, and began working their garments open.

  "You're very bold tonight." The breathless statement was followed by a swift, muttered curse as Randall caught their pricks in his hand and stroked them together.

  "I?" Randall leaned into Terence and bit the man's ear lobe sharply. "I suggested we meet in the usual place, secure and behind closed doors. You were the one who had a hankering for challenging the ton. Is it turning you on, making you hot to think that just a few feet away the others are dancing and drinking and making merry?"

  "Damn you, harder!" Terence's hand closed over his and Randall shuddered as the grip tightened, the rhythm roughened. He stared down between them, to where their hands slid up and down, squeezing drops of clear liquid from each prick that mingled and streamed down to slick the path of their movements. Terence's hand on his cock was more erotic than ever, and maybe it was the thought of being caught out, of the scandal that lurked, but his body was tensing, and beads of perspiration formed. He threw back his head, slipped his free hand down the back of Terence's pantaloons and into his small clothes. Terence trembled against him, Randall soothed him with a whispered word, cupped his buttock, and let his fingers trail along the crease of the man's arse.

  "Have a care...we can't do that here."

  "I am aware," he chuckled dryly, catching his breath. His fingers brushed over the puckered hole, Terence shuddered, his cock stiffening still further, the skin stretched so tight and fine Randal could swear he felt the man's heart beat in the blood that swelled his organ.

  "Damnation...so very good." Terence was bucking into his grip, losing his rhythm. Randal rubbed the hole, pressed the very tip of his finger inside, and let the exultation flood him as Terence's seed spilled along his cock, in jet after jet.

  "That's right." He murmured. "Give me your pleasure." He milked the softening cock of every last drop of seed, then wiped them both off with his handkerchief.

  His cock throbbed with want, and he smiled at the man he'd come to realize was most decidedly not Terence. "At this point, Terence would drop to his knees and suck me. Are you of a like mind?"

  "So you've realized I'm not your friend, have you?" The strange highwayman tucked himself away and refastened his pantaloons. "What happens now?"

  "Now, I'm still in need of release, and you are a likeminded fellow it seems. If you cannot bring yourself to suck me, then your hand will do as well."

  The black domino muted the man's laughter, but he obligingly dropped to his knees on the plush carpet and with a little deft maneuvering of his mask and Randall's cock, had him encased in wet heat and strong suction within moments.

  Randall sighed and let his hands rest on the velvet of the mask, ordinarily he'd have twined his fingers in his lover's hair, to give his hands something to do. Idle hands are the devil's work his mother used to say, but then again...so was this sodomy. "You're very good at this," he sighed, sinking deeply into the wet mouth, enjoying the light scrape of teeth. His blood surged, an agile tongue toyed with the tip of his cock on each retreat, swirling and sucking, drawing rushes f pleasure from him as his body tensed, thighs stiffening. Heat pooled and exploded, and with it his seed pulsed into the receptive mouth.

  As soon as his senses returned he withdrew politely. The stranger rose to his feet as Randall tucked himself away again. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me your name, highwayman?"

  "You don't suppose correctly. Unless, of course, you'd like to tell me yours, Robin of the Hood? No? I thought not." The man swept a deep bow and waved to the door. "After you, my lord thief."

  Laughing softly, Randall allowed himself to be ushered from the room. It wasn't until he was back in his own rooms in Cavendish Square that it occurred to him to wonder if the man hadn't been Terence, and wasn't expecting to meet up with him for a liaison, then what had he been doing in Mortimer's study? For the one thing he was absolutely certain of, the man was neither Terence nor Mortimer Gravesend.

  Chapter Two

  Savoring the lethargy of release, the faint aroma of seed that lingered between them, Jason gently closed the door. He shook his head as the Robin Hood strode away without looking back. The man crossed the marble floor, boots clacking with authority that caused a loitering footman to snap to attention. There was something vaguely familiar about the man he'd just enjoyed a brief sensual encounter with...something he couldn't quite place his finger on.

  Ducking into an alcove, Jason strained his ears to hear any bit of the conversation between the two, but all he could distinguish was the masculine murmur that had stirred his senses in the other room luring him to behave so foolishly. That voice had fired his blood as much as the sight of the man's erect prick tauntingly outlined in the clinging green hosiery of his costume. His mouth had watered in anticipation at the visual stimulation, and his entire being had leapt to awareness when the man's meaning sank in. Whoever this Terence was, he was a very lucky fellow to have such a lover!

  Squinting slightly, searching for any telling details that he might have missed earlier in the heat of the moment as it were, he fancied the gentleman, for such he had to be, judging from his speech and the quality of his dress, to have a military air about him. Was he a soldier home on leave? A former officer in his majesty's service home to tend to the duties of the family? Many an officer was remanded home when the family required his presence, for instance if he were in line to inherit a title or estate?

  Enough speculation! Time passing did no one any favors, and he needed to exit the premises while the chaos of the masquerade cloaked his actions. How fortunate it was for his plans that the scoundrel Gravesend and his insipid wife had chosen this date for their carouse. He'd had to wait scarce twenty-four hours beyond his arrival in London to make his search of their home. Sneaking in had been easy enough for a man trained in the art of stealth, dependent upon duplicity for his very survival.

  The evening hadn't been a complete loss. In addition to a small ledger detailing deliveries of laces and fabrics secreted in the far recesses of the idiot's locked desk drawer, he'd discovered a journal of contacts. Unfortunately, all of them appeared to be the seamstresses to which the dress materials were delivered. He'd left the ledger and the journal in place, hoping that by doing so Gravesend would be unaware that he'd been discovered.

  The money though, he hadn't been able to pass up. It had been in an unlocked drawer, no effort made to hide it. He'd pocketed a sheaf of bills from Gravesend's desk that would aid in funding his search. Too bad he didn't dare to let anyone know that he was alive, or he could access his own funds. His father hadn't had much to do with him, other than seeing to a decent education far from his legitimate cousins, but he had provided an adequate allowance, nothing compared to what the legitimate offspring received, he was certain, but certainly enough to insult the lad he'd been into foreswearing its use.

  Now here he was, with a tidy little fortune in the banks, and
for the first time in his thirty years inclined to put it to good use, but unable to access it, because he was supposed to be dead. The only Grettons who even knew of his existence were Peregrine and Gerard, his deceased father's brother. Peregrine, he sneered, had been let in on the secret when he'd been assigned as Jason's contact at the home office. The elder Gretton had probably been aghast at the idea of his brother's by-blow working closely with the heir apparent. Peregrine had suggested that Jason ought to meet the rest of the men of the family, but Jason had refused. He had no interest in the man who had taken what should have been his, had his scoundrel of a father only married his mother, instead of seducing the pretty young Parisian ballerina. Jason had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and he'd be damned if he'd pretend it didn't matter to him that what should have been his had passed down to his uncle, and one day to his cousin.

  Unfortunately, Peregrine was such a stickler for the rules and regulations that Jason and his crew had found it politic to conceal a great deal of the ways and means by which they had uncovered much of their information from the man. Equally unfortunately, he couldn't trust young Gretton not to give the game away. No way would Peregrine Gretton countenance Jason's plans for a rather unorthodox method of dealing with the traitors. No, he'd likely want a trial, and all Jason wanted was for the stream of information to be shut down before any more brave Englishmen lost their lives. For all he knew, the man was the mole in the office. For certain, the man was the only one he'd had face-to-face time with at the office.

  Discovering Gravesend's bankroll made this a good evening in deed. It was his hope that Gravesend would suspect only that he'd been robbed, perhaps by a servant or guest at the ball. In fact, Jason Dancourt counted it as one of his few successes since his undercover operation in Paris had been so spectacularly destroyed. Not only had he located in Gravesend's desk the signet ring whose seal matched the mark on the coded message he'd found at the scene of Trenton and Darby's murder, but he'd encountered someone else who clearly enjoyed a bit of the same sort of sport that he himself liked to while away his leisure time with.

  Not that he had time for that very often in his line of work. The men he seduced in the line of duty weren't always the best or most considerate of lovers. He didn't in general care, as long as they talked in their sleep or could be coaxed into sharing secrets whilst in their cups.

  All that had changed just a month before when his entire squad had been decimated overnight, he'd been well aware that there was a traitor somewhere in the ranks of the home office. Not knowing who to trust, he'd returned home determined to find the man selling English secrets to the French. From what he'd discovered so far, Gravesend was too stupid to be the mastermind, but he was involved.

  This Robin Hood, though, he'd struck Jason as a man of intelligence and discretion. Might he be the spy in their midst? Why else would he have entered Gravesend's library as though he belonged there? Then again, why, if he were the mastermind, would he leave the study without so much as questioning Jason's presence?

  Scowling derisively at his own inane thoughts, Jason slipped out through the French doors in the ballroom and made his way through the gardens to the mews. If he were going to question the motives of the man in the library, wouldn't it make more sense to wonder why he'd been so sexually aggressive? Surely that assignation with the unseen Terence had been the man's reason for being there. Playing along had gotten him out of the room and the house without question and he could damn well accept that stroke of good fortune.

  The man's touch had been sure and knowing, and almost Jason wished he were Terence or that he'd had some way of finding the fellow again. When all this is done...he promised himself. When justice and revenge are served up with an equal hand, then you can come back and scour the ballrooms for a muscular Corinthian who smells of bay rum and wears Hessians. The challenge will keep you occupied while your uncle and the cousins who don't know you exist continue to ignore your existence.

  The information he'd found in Gravesend's desk had been minimal, but it was sufficient to confirm that he needed to head back to Devon and cut off the route of information out of the country. When that had been attended to, he could turn his mind to the best way to dispose of Gravesend and undercover the man's master.

  In the alley behind the mews, he threw off the black domino that had effectively concealed his face and rolled it into a compact package. It might come in handy for skulking around in Devon.

  He returned to his rooming house unchallenged, and swiftly packed his bag. His traveling options had broadened since he'd discovered a bit of the ready in Gravesend's desk. Originally Jason had intended to travel to Devon by mail coach, a tedious and lengthy journey scrunched up in a coach with a multitude of other travelers who weren't always as meticulous about their persons as Jason preferred his companions to be.

  Now, with this largesse, he could purchase a horse and ride in style, increasing both the speed and comfort of his journey. The funds wouldn't run to a quality beast from Tattersall's of course, but it would quite easily purchase him a functional and sturdy beast at any of a number of lesser dealers. There was, he thought, a poetic sort of justice to using Gravesend's ill begotten funds to perpetrate his revenge.

  The sun had scarcely risen in the sky before he was in the saddle, heading out of town.

  Chapter Three

  The twinge of pain in his ankle had long since turned to a raging throb barely contained by the tight leather of his boot. It was his own damn fault for letting himself be distracted by the sheer beauty of the countryside in which he walked. Devon held more beauty than any other place. It was both stark and rich, and in this afternoon alone he'd marveled at tall cliffs, golden expanses of beach revealed by the low tide, and eerie wind twisted trees that divided fields from one another.

  The place was a smuggler's paradise. The waters of the little bay were tranquil and protected. Cargo could quite easily be offloaded in waterproof barrels and sunk, then hauled ashore as the tides permitted. The beaches were smooth, hidden unless you happened to be standing in full view at the top of a cliff looking straight down, in which case you made an excellent target for the gentlemen. It was while peering over just such a steeply sloped, nearly vertical cliff that an auk colony caused him to misstep and stumble. He'd nearly pitched over the cliff to his death, and in the contortions required to bring himself safely about, had somehow managed to injure his ankle. After resting a bit, he'd set off for home and a dram of whiskey or brandy, smuggled but legally purchased form the excise office, and a hot bath. He discovered as he walked that he'd come farther than he'd thought, and that what had seemed a serene and easy ramble while hale and hearty was in fact a torturous trail when he couldn't put his full weight on his right leg.

  The sun dipped down below the horizon and chill breezes wrapped him in the salty fresh scent of the ocean. He trudged on, setting his mouth against the pain of his injury. No more than a slightly used track, the path was barely visible in the rising moonlight, but Randall persevered, making his weary, slow way back to the house. He'd spent the afternoon exploring the surrounding area on foot, not even seriously looking for traces of smugglers or illegal activity. He'd wanted exercise after spending the last portion of the journey cooped up in the carriage with Cecy, and rationalized that it would be of benefit to get the lay of the land before his meeting with the local magistrate, one Caleb Jeffries, Lord Haytor according to his briefing.

  He'd planned to be out of the way long before darkness fell. For one thing, he hadn't wanted to alarm Cecy with his absence, for another, he hadn't wanted an encounter with any of the local gentlemen before he'd addressed the magistrate. He well knew that the entire residency of the countryside would look on him as the enemy. There had been scarce a house in the village or on the path he'd traveled this afternoon that hadn't proudly displayed its bit of glass, signaling their sympathy for the local trade. He wished he could shout it out, to all the squinting men who'd shuffled there feet in sile
nce as he passed, that he had no interest in their attempts to make a living. Times were hard, but when the aristocracy paid well for good brandy and delicate lace, what point was there in arresting every fool with a skiff who ventured over the channel in search of riches? These folk were lucky to make enough to feed their children. No. If the government had any real desire to stop the smuggling dens, then they'd pursue the purchasers instead of the purveyors.

  Randall's mission was very specific. Peregrine had emphasized the necessity that he avoid any conflict with the local smuggling gangs before he discovered whether they were complicit in the treasonous trading of information that had led to the deaths of one of Perry's squads of intelligence agents in Paris.

  Four men had lost their lives, brave souls who'd undertaken a task that most soldiers deigned dishonorable...to live and work as Frenchmen in Paris under Bonaparte's rule and send back information that might aid Wellington, or the home office in bringing this whole bloody debacle to an end.

  Instead, he'd made a careless step, slid halfway down a cliff and twisted his foot. After some judicious cursing, he decided to leave the boot on and make his way slowly, and painfully back to the little house on the edge of town he'd taken. If he were fortunate a passing local would offer him a lift in. The tight leather of his boot was painful, but he'd seen enough of injuries swelling so that a boot once removed could not be replaced to know to keep it on.

  There was no traffic at all upon the little track along the river he'd followed that afternoon, and that alone caused him some concern. There should have been someone, surely? Unless this were a trade night for the gentlemen, in which case his presence out and about was unlikely to be greeted as innocuous.

  "Stand and deliver!" The thunderous shout caught him unaware, and he nearly stumbled for a second time that evening.